Summary

Summer in Norfolk in the year of 1900. 14-year old John Watson follows his friend Mike to upper class residence, Donnithorpe, to spend the holiday. There he experiences a whole new world, with different social rules and forbidden feelings simmering beneath the surface. And he meets a group of people who will change his view of love forever, one person in particular: the 17-year old Sherlock Holmes who spends his last days at the estate passing the time by exchanging mysterious letters with a man named Victor Trevor.

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Summary

When John heads overseas for a week, Sherlock's forced to fend for himself. It goes about as well as anyone could have anticipated. Which is to say, very, very poorly. Don't worry, things'll be fine in just seven days.

Series

Bookmarker's Notes

She accepted the light graciously enough, but the corners of her mouth kept twitching in amusement. Well, it had sounded like a pick up line, and he was probably old enough to be her father. He realised he was holding his stomach in, and he let the muscles relax, feeling the little paunch settle back into place.She inhaled with obvious pleasure, and as the smoke trickled from the lush red 'O' of her mouth he felt desire spark through him. Desire – he couldn't deny what it was any longer – a deep aching need (for her, someone, anyone).And, god, he'd have to speak to a solicitor (and those condoms were probably out of date, and maybe he should join a gym), and he definitely had to buy his own place – they'd have to sell the house, couldn't afford two mortgages – and it was all too sudden, too much. There was a clenching pain in his chest (Christ, he was still too young for a heart attack) and the pavement seemed to tilt under his feet.When the world righted itself, Lestrade was hunched over, his hands aching where they clutched the railings. He breathed through the last of the light-headedness before he dared to let go. The woman was drifting away in a haze of perfume and cigarette smoke.John stood alone on the far pavement, watching him, his face wrinkled in concernLestrade crossed over to him.John gestured vaguely towards the church, the people gathering outside. “Sherlock would have hated all this,” he said.“He'd have laughed,” Lestrade corrected him. “That's why he said he wanted donations instead of flowers.”“So, did you give to the Campaign Against CCTV?”“Not really the done thing, in my line of work. I went for Obesity Awareness instead.”

Bookmarker's Notes

Then he heard a sound that sent a splinter of ice straight down his spine. A ringing burst of laughter: Sherlock’s laugh. No, not Sherlock’s actual laugh, not the dry sarcastic chuckle or the surprised bark of genuine amusement. But it was a sound he’d heard Sherlock make before, when he was impersonating someone or other, a ridiculous sort of high-pitched whinny. Surely, he told himself, surely he was being paranoid. He’d been thinking about Sherlock far too much on the trip up, so his mind was now latching onto vague resemblances--any number of people in the world might have a similar-sounding laugh. But he edged in closer to the source of the sound just the same, looking round carefully, just in case.Buggering fuck. It was him. He was there, tall in the midst of a laughing group, hair slicked down and parted, wearing a shabby, ill-fitting suit Greg had never seen before. What on Earth? He edged closer to the knot of people, circling round behind Sherlock's back, hoping to overhear their conversation. He was still having trouble believing his eyes.“...and he was still wearing it when we went round to arrest him,” Sherlock was saying, in a nasal accent not his own. “But that’s not the worst of it--it was the only thing he had on. There’s an image I’ll never be rid of.” The fellows around him chuckled appreciatively, and one of them launched into their own stupid-crims-I-have-taken-in story.

Bookmarker's Notes

Jim threw himself on the sofa next to Seb. "All of this is pointless if he decides not to show up."Sebastian fixed him with a funny look: You're being obsessive but fuck it, you're the boss. Jim knew it well. "He'll show.""Hm." Jim tilted the laptop toward himself, surveying the scrawny bodies of all ages stretched out on rag mats on the floor. "Christ, what a hole. You'd think he'd be afraid for his life. Or have higher standards, at least. It's disappointing.""He's a junkie," Seb replied philosophically. "Selfish radge cunts, the lot of them. I never knew one who wouldn't sell his mam into slavery if he was down to his last skin pop. The only difference with Holmes is that he's not skint, ever.""Lucky boy," Jim murmured. "I suppose Big Brother keeps him in funds.""Maybe. He's some cute hoor, though. You read the Nepal report, didn't you? Accepted payment from the monks in opium."Jim smiled. "You've got to admire a man who knows how to barter.""That's him."Jim moved closer to the laptop and watched. "God, it is. Look at him!" He watched eagerly as Sherlock, in a loose-fitting white shirt and trousers, seated himself on one of the mats and took out his kit. He rolled up one of his sleeves and bound a length of tubing tightly round his upper arm, then began to cook up his shot. "Let's go. Come on.""Hey there, Sleeping Beauty." Sherlock was decidedly down for the count; the dose Raghu had sold him would knock him flat for the better part of the day and night. There wouldn't be any lasting damage, at least not in terms of Sherlock's tolerance, which was, to Jim's mind, scarily high. Still, who was he to judge? Everyone had their vices. Sherlock was his.

He reached down and wound one of Sherlock's too-long curls round his index finger, tugging lightly. He'd love to take a photo of Sherlock, fast asleep, and send it to Mycroft Holmes, without a word of explanation. Mycroft deserved a good scare. He wouldn't send it…but wouldn't it be nice to have a little keepsake of his own?

Series

Bookmarker's Notes

Oh. Oh. This has been worth waiting for. The boy, Sherlock (and there’s a name well fit for purring), hasn’t turned but instead watches Jim in the mirror over Mycroft’s dining table. He’s a flowering branch; set him among plum blossoms and his beauty would scorch them. His skin is incandescent, his hair a dark tumble — oh, yes it would be well worth fucking pasty Mycroft en route to a chance to turn these tilted, sharp eyes wild. Long legs hooked over Jim’s shoulders. The spindly twelve-year-old in the photo on Mycroft’s wall had given promise of future loveliness; “When was that taken?” Jim had asked idly, seeing it months ago, feeling the first prick of Give me that. The live boy in the mirror glances away. For once, Jim accepts Mycroft’s kiss on the cheek with real warmth.

A week later, Jim’s advisor rings him. An urgent meeting, please. There’s a question concerning certain passages in his thesis, passages that appear to reproduce without credit material from a paper previously published in Acta Mathematica Leipzig. Can Mr. Moriarty explain?Well, yes, Mr. Moriarty can explain, but the information that his thesis has been altered by the pretty-boy tart who gave him the boot earlier that spring is unlikely to be well received. And even Jim can’t come up with a better story on the spot. He shakes his head — academic pressure, exhaustion, a lapse in judgment, deep sense of shame — and that’s the end of the prospective James Moriarty, Ph.D.